I think your house's previous owners found the hiding spot and decided the disguise the hiding spot by putting a couple of freezers over the top of it. And when they got ready to leave and saw how much work it would be to move the chests, they said "Ah, fuck it--who needs a treasure in gold coins anyway?" and the moving van pulled out of the driveway and that's all they wrote. . .

I hate to Disagree, but the first effective freezers were patented in the 1840s, and would not have been that uncommon at the end of the 19th century.....

Now, if our hero came back into town in 1885, settled down, had a family, and had the son grow up into a teenager before his past caught up with him, we must be looking at 1900 or so.

I'm afraid we really have to be thinking of Idaho as totally beyond civilisation, a backwater of no note and irredeemable barbarity, to account for the lack of freezers in which to bury the gold. Either that, or Gluon has made a mess of the time-space condominium again.

Well, you all know of Brockie Jack, Dave Updycke and the rest and how they pulled the Port Neuf stage robbery near here on July 26, 1865. You all know that the USD 86,000 in gold (now estimated to be worth about USD 1.6 million) has never been found. And of course you know that Dave Updycke was hanged by the Vigilantes, Willy Whitmore was shot down in Arizona, and another one, Miller, was hung over in Colorado by a Vigilante group there.

Brockie Jack got clean away. And he was the only one of the gang who was able to tell where the gold was hidden, because Updycke just kinda glared at the Vigilantes with contempt when they ask him.

(Henry Plummer wasn't involved in this, in case you were thinking that maybe the Plummer gang was involved. This was mostly because Henry had been hanged by the Vigilantes in Bannack, Montana in 1864.)

Anyway, what isn't well known is that Brockie Jack came BACK to Pocatello in 1883. He had a bit of gold, enough to live on, and never seemed to lack enough money for a place to live, some food, a touch of whiskey now and then, and most importantly, to marry a local woman by whom he had three kids -- two twin girls and a boy.

Brockie Jack used a different name, of course, and he's buried out in Mountainview Cemetery under that alias. He worked at the Farmers' and Miners' Bank as a cashier, and then bought up the Railroad Merchandise Emporium on First Street, next to Chubb's Drug Store.

Well, one day one of the Bad Men (they never found out who) apparently came into town on a UP train and recognized Brockie Jack. He promptly shot eleven holes in Brockie and promptly left town again. Dying, Brockie called for his son and in his dying moments told the teenager exactly where out on Big Southern Butte the gold from that long-ago holdup was hidden.

The son, however, was nothing like his father. He shunned whiskey, women and tobacco and finally Went East to attend a seminary. He came back to town as a Baptist Preacher, married, and had his own family. He was well respected, and was one of those who not only helped to found the public library here, but also the hospital. When he passed away there was much mourning.

He did, however, leave the directions to the treasure in the care of his wife. She hid it in a "secret drawer" in his desk, which was eventually donated by the family to the Bannock County Historical Society.

Time passed. The robbery wasn't forgotten and neither was the gold, but it passed from truth to legend. And then, during an open house at the Historical Society's Museum, the "secret drawer" in the desk was found and so were the directions to the gold.

They were encoded. Not just encoded, but encrypted. And it wasn't one of those "A=1, B=2" things either. This was a real tough nut to crack, and nobody seemed able to do it.

They tried letter frequency counts, for instance. Didn't work, although one of the results DID yield what seemed to be a fragment of a lost play by Moliere and another a pretty danged good biscuit recipe (used for years at the Bannock Hotel, until that old landmark was torn down).

If you would PM me your email address, I shall email you pictures of said freezers.

There is not a shred, tittle, jot, or dottle of truth in what either Amos OR Bee-Dubya-Ell says. The Truth is so bizarre, so outrageous, so unbelievable, that I have until now kept it to myself since I knew that no one would believe me.

However, I've spoken with Mom and she says that the time has come to Explain It All.

Anyway, as you know, Rapaire is a man closely attuned to violent solutions and the implements thereof. So he keeps a couple of freezers buried in the back yard. They are sodded over -- as he often is himself -- and protected by random sprinklings of junk and rubble -- hmmm, the parallels are fascinating -- and because they are freezers, they defeat efforts by the police to find recently expired victims using infrared heat sensor devices. So when his violent side gets the better of him, and he cuts some housewife's throat with his epee or guts some insurance salesman by accident, thinking him to be an intruder because he rang the doorbell at 11 AM on Saturday, or he demonstrates his military arsenal to the neighbor in retribution for the neighbor's dog having messed up his calla lilies, why it's no worries. Into the freezer they go. If it gets full, well, the alarm has long since died down and he can grind 'em up for fertilizer at his leisure and make room for more.

You can only see the buried freezers if you view the house with back-scatter x-rays so that you can see through the roof, the floor of the deck, and the junk I've piled over them so nobody gets locked inside. I'm slowly filling them up with various types of rubble. You know: Barney, Wilma....

That's what I said--it's odd that when I plug in my address the dot ends up beside my next door neighbor who DOES have a car in the driveway. Mine is beside him without a car. It's in the garage. I had to make the label before the photo came up.

I've been ignoring this little tiff altogether, by playing Sky Geology over Arizona, with Google Earth, coffee, and textbooks. I was trying to study properly, but got distracted and went wow alot instead....

Your apology is sufficient and accepted. Given the current political situation in our Nation's Capital, may I suggest a more cautious use of the the letter "W"? As I'm certain you are aware to call someone a "W" can lead to a demand for immediate satisfaction, and quite rightly so. As we say in The West, "Them's fightin' words, pardner."

Just the other evening Mr. Hardrock Hammes became embroiled in fisticuffs with Mr. Jump-up John outside of the Idaho Legion Hovel after Mr. Hammes decided that Mr. John had called him "W." It was, of course, a misunderstanding as Mr. John (who stutters) actually said, "W-w-w-w-where's the toilet?" Fortunately, Mr. John struck Mr. Hammes on the head with a shovel and no one was actually injured. Mr. Hammes bought Mr. John several drinks afterwards, including one called a "Saturday Night Special." When last seen Mr. Hammes and Mr. John were sitting together, arms around each other, weeping over their newly-found friendship.

Tell you what, LH -- you and Rapaire and Chongo go off and do your threesome thing, then, whatever it is you want to do, and I will stay snug and happy to home. Then, when you've worked it all out of your systems, come on back, welcome as always.

See, Rapaire is thinking he has been insulted. But that just ain't so. I told him what he wrote was well-witted. I concur I was a bit liberal with W's, but that is not an offense in most quarters.

Here...after you've done, you can figure out who your long-sought soulmate is, by name, even!.

Oh! WELL SAID, Supreme One!!! Verily, thou hast cast that vile knave well and truly into the outer darkness, into the very pit itself. There shall he stew for all eternity...or at least for the next five minutes or so.

The pomposity of your posting has confirmed your bombastic nature and lack of regard for Truth. It grieves me full sore, and I would overlook the insult to myself, but I cannot countenance the insult to my family. I ask that you explain yourself and provide any mitigating circumstances (for example, gross intoxication) for these crude, malicious, and untrue remarks.

About Rapaire, as about Polonius, from whom he lifted the "pity" iteration above, it may well be said, "...he is described as a windbag by some and a rambler of wisdom by others. It has also been suggested that he only acts like a "foolish prating knave" in order to keep his position and popularity safe and to keep anyone from discovering his plots for social advancement. ...."

Well witted, thou whorly whoreson of a what-not, for one who wots not whence his wherewithal for whate'er he wears will wend.

LIfe with Rapaire certainly has its Upson Downs. He not only plagiarizes copyrighted language, he takes that which is public fare and butchers it.

Downs are rolling hills, as anyone with an etymological dictionary know. Now the odd thing is that the English, who coined the term, are more confused than the Australians about its meaning. Compare the following:

A downland is an area of open chalk upland. This term is especially used to describe the chalk countryside in southern England. Areas of downland are often referred to as Downs. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Downs

Race courses used to be stuffed with fluffy goose feathers so that if the horses fell down they wouldn't get hurt. That's why they were called "Downs." But it was found that the jockeys got too comfortable laying there and that they were making the horses deliberately fall so that they could catch a bit of a nap. So they did away with the stuffing and ran the races on plain old dirt. But the name, "Downs," stuck.

By the way, the drink of which the losers partook was called the "Downs Comforter."

If you decide to go to the horse races while you're in Tampa, say "Hi" to my stepson. He lives not too far from Tampa Downs.

Which brings us to the question of why are so many horse racing tracks called "______ Downs?" What the hell's a "down"? Is it because the horses fall down? But if they all fall down, nobody wins the race! They should call them "Ups". The Kentucky Derby should be run at "Churchill Ups".

I have just returned from the ground breaking ceremonies for the Old Town Pocatello Pavilion. Quite nice, and the Idaho Legion's Color Honor Guard showed up and neither of them fell flat on their face for a change. Last time they showed up for something like this it was at the opening of the new Sewage Treatment Plant and yes, you guessed it -- both of them missed falling in. They landed on the edge of one of the CEment ponds and suffered a bloody nose and a chipped tooth, respectively.

It's amazing to everyone that two guys that are so maladroit can do so much damage to themselves and never even nick or dent the weapons they carry. Of course, it IS hard to damage an old broom handle.